“That won’t be necessary,” I said, in a tone I hoped sounded offended. It was a page straight out of Adrienne’s playbook, to insult a woman’s looks in the guise of concern; even I knew that “tired” was not-so-secret code for “pale, saggy, and old.” But what I really felt wasn’t offense. It was relief. I had wondered when it might happen, when someone would look past Adrienne’s hair and clothes and sunglasses and notice that a changeling had taken her place. Every time someone squinted at my face, every time someone stared a little too long, I would feel the tickle of fear: They see me.
But of course they didn’t. They just saw a woman whose features had always been a continuous work in progress, and wondered what kind of work she’d had done. Adrienne was the type who would go out of town for a weekend and come back tweaked, her face subtly manipulated in a way you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A slimmer jawline? A smoother forehead? It was what made Geller’s suggestion such a brilliant joke: Adrienne hadn’t looked like herself in years.
I was safe.
I also understood, finally, why the man’s perfectly ageless face never seemed to move.
The flight south was my first time on an airplane, and as the wheels lifted off the tarmac, I felt terrified and elated. Weightless. I flew first class because Adrienne would have, but also because I wanted to. A flight attendant poured me a glass of champagne and asked whether I was going home for the holidays. I told her I was going to see my mother, and it was funny, how it didn’t feel like a lie. How it still doesn’t. The director of the nursing home met me at the door and warned me that the visit might be challenging, and it was, but not the way they were afraid of: Margaret Swan threw her arms around me with a broad smile and exclaimed, “Oh, it’s you!” and I hugged her back, hard, feeling like something was cracking open inside me. I put my face in her shoulder. I heard my voice break as I said, “Mom,” even though I knew that Adrienne always called her “Mother.”
Of all the things that Adrienne never appreciated, all her castoffs and hand-me-downs, this is the one that makes me angry. And grateful. And afraid.
After visiting hours were over, I stopped in a washroom. One of the orderlies who’d escorted me in was standing at the sinks in her white clogs and scrubs, scraping a fingernail over her front teeth. She flashed me a smile, the nasty kind that curls the lips but doesn’t reach the eyes, and said, “You know she’s just faking it, right? They all are. We tell them a few minutes ahead of time that they’re going to see whoever, and then they pretend to recognize their daughter or son or wife or whatever. You do know that, don’t you?”
The thing is, I did know. Of course I fucking knew. I could see it behind Margaret’s eyes in the moments before she hugged me, that fear of making a misstep. Of not knowing what’s expected. Like trying to sing along to a song whose lyrics you’ve forgotten, hoping the noises you’re making sound enough like the words that nobody notices, wondering if the shape of your mouth is betraying you, going “ooooh” when it should be “aaaah.” Yes, I know what someone looks like when they’re pretending.
But for God’s sake, even I know you don’t say that to a person. Not out loud, not in a place like this, not about someone’s mother. Adrienne would have been furious. Not for her mom, but for herself. Jesus Christ, the rudeness. The lack of respect. She would have drawn herself up, standing tall like a regal ice queen, looking down her nose at the woman and sniffing, “Karen, I’d like to speak to your manager.”
That’s what Adrienne would have said.
What I said was, “Go fuck yourself, you rancid fucking cunt.”
I still hear Adrienne’s voice in my head, but that doesn’t mean I always use it.
I really do want to move her somewhere nicer. Margaret. Mother.
Mom, maybe.
Before I left, on the last day of my visit, Margaret Swan leaned forward and took hold of both my hands.
“You’re a sweet girl,” she said. “You remind me of my daughter.”
I tell myself that I can live this way. Rick Politano says the estate will be settled soon, and once Ethan Richard’s assets are distributed, I can go anywhere I want to. I should be relieved, I know. Excited, even. But that word, “anywhere,” contains so many possibilities, too many, and it paralyzes me, especially when it’s followed by those next two. Anywhere I want. As if I know what I want. As if I know who I am. Could I still follow Lizzie Ouellette’s dreams, and be happy? I’m afraid to find out. I’m afraid to scratch the surface. I’m afraid that whoever I really was, she smothered and died somewhere inside, small and forgotten, while I was playing dress-up in Adrienne’s skin. That if I try to peel the layers away, she’ll rot and fall to pieces the moment the light touches her.